Prussia May Never Write Anything Ever Again
by MiraMizu15
Summary: What happens when Hungary catches Prussia writing things he shouldn't? Well you'll have to find out. Human names used: Liza and Gil, Hungary and Prussia


**I don't own Hetalia or Epson Guitars. I have edited this story from its original format for a more pleasurable reading experience.**

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><p>I smack the period key with a flourish and save the document, experiencing a mixture of satisfaction and glee. <em>This<em> may be the _epitome _of awesome, blogging about dreams.

"Gil?" Our tank of a door swings inward, and my neck snaps up in time to see my roommate maneuver inside our flat, arms spread wide to encompass a giant rectangular box. Kesese, goodies from IKEA. She flips the mass of brown hair from her face and shifts the position of her arm a little to close the door.

"Hey," she grins, quickly depositing the merchandise on the kitchen counter. "Whatcha doing?"

"Not much...," I say, throwing the gambit, "powering our apartment with the energy of awesome. Normal stuff."

"Uh huh." Her eyes linger over my laptop. "Blogging again?" She turns her back to me and starts rifling through one of the kitchen drawers.

"NO! Gott, do you ever listen woman? I'm piloting a new form of clean fuel."

"Bullshit. You can't even conjure up enough fuel to piss in the morning."

I glower, calculating how best to avoid conflict while her back is turned. "Well. I'll have you know, it's not blogging. It's a report for work."

"You part-time at a music store, Gilbert."

"So? A new Epson model came in. They would flounder without my awesome reporting skills," I reply.

She bends lower, up to her elbow in the confines of the counter, and it makes her green maxi dress ride up her butt. "Can I read it, then?" comes her muffled response.

I blank. "... It's not done... So, no."

"Oh that's okay," Liza assures, popping up for a momentary bout of air, "I'm a good editor."

"I do not need your help nor do I want your help!" I announce, covertly lowering the lid of my computer.

"Gilbert, how will you appeal to the womanly masses if you don't have a suitable female counterpart in your editing process?" she says, and I swear I see it, that tiny, evil, doom-ridden smirk pulling up the corners of her lips. The enemy is aware.

"You'll taint it," I counterattack.

She slowly disengages from her battle with the kitchen to assail me. "I will not."

"You will. Do you think my boss wants sugar and flowers poisoning his eyes? I don't think he does," I bullshit.

Without watching, she shoves her hand back into the mess. "You do know that girls aren't made of sugar and flowers, I hope. AHA!" A pair of scissors is thrust into the air and the drawer vindictively slung back into place.

"Psh, you're definitely not, she-man. Now, let me finish my work."

"Why can't I read it?" she asks, puncturing the cardboard box with metal blades.

"Because it's in German!" Five seconds later, my buddy hindsight strolls by with a good slug to the gut.

"..." The only sound in the morning warmth is scissors tearing tape as the contents of her box are exposed to the light.

"Uh ja, my computer's been acting up..." I begin, trying blindly to just quit out of my document before she comes sniffing for blood.

"Gilbert. Let me read your 'work report'." It's a command and indeed she comes, leaving behind her project, and crossing the room, hiking up her long skirt to get by all the shit that litters the floor. She releases a particularly frustrated snarl and bends down, re-emerging with a bottle cap held at ransom. "This is not my brand of alcohol, Gilbert. You really need to pick this shit up," she growls, continuing her quest for my ultimate destruction. Because that is surely what will happen when she gets her hands on my "work report".

"Great, I'll do that right now! I'll call in Francis and Antonio to help, and I know how much you hate them, so you should probably get your fat ass outta here!"

She looks up from scrutinizing a stain on the floor, about five inches from her left foot. In point of fact, that stain was put there three nights ago when a friend and I mixed alcohol... and what could have been condiments from the fridge, but what she doesn't know, won't hurt me. "You **never **want to clean. What gives?"

"Absolutely nothing. Don't be jumping to conclusions, woman." Please, God, let the force guide my cursor to the x-button before this psycho can kill a semi-innocent victim.

Her eyes, green like a toxic warning sign, rake me up and down. "Let me see your laptop."

Shit. "Nein."

"Give me the laptop," she hisses, lower this time, closing the distance between us.

"Nein, it's mine, stay back!"

"Let me see it!" She dives for it, throwing us both into the back of the couch.

"Let go, you crazy she-man!" I howl, jabbing my fingers into her eyes.

"Not until I read what you wrote!"

"WHY? It's none of your business!" Technically a lie.

"We'll see about that!" She wrenches it from my fingers and sits on my stomach, trapping me for whatever punishment she feels appropriate to dole out. I watch her gaze move down the lines of text, becoming smaller and smaller slits as time wears on. By the end, it's more or less pained skimming. "You're dead."

That's all I need to hear. I shove her off my abdomen and dive for cover. "STAY BACK!"

"HOW COULD YOU WRITE THAT STUFF?" she screams, tearing apart the living room in her fury.

"I'm a man! It's my curse!"

"A curse that's about to get you killed!"

"Leave me alone!"

"YOU SAW ME IN THE SHOWER!"

"THE DOOR WAS OPEN! I NEEDED TO PISS!"

"YOU TOOK A PICTURE!"

"THE ARTIST IN ME COULDN'T BE DENIED."

"WHAT IF PEOPLE AT SCHOOL HAD SEEN?"

"I think they would have appreciated me, funnily enough."

"THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A PLATONIC LIVING ARRANGEMENT!"

"THEN LOCK YOUR GODDAMN DOOR AND I'LL MASTRUBATE TO IMAGES OF OTHER WOMEN!"

There is a deadly silence throughout the apartment. I cower behind the couch, hands wrapped around myself, waiting for the inevitable pain. Suddenly, an epic, resounding crash to the back of my skull sends me flying forward. Through hazy vision, I realize exactly what she bought at IKEA: a cast-iron frying pan. Damn you synchronicity, coincidence, and fate. Damn you for not locking the bathroom door last night. Damn you for sending me that dream when you did. Damn you for telling Liza to go to a kitchen store today. Fucking unawesome.

Her knuckles are white against the black handle. "That's for almost posting naked pictures of me on your blog, you dirty pervert."

"I... I was...n't... actually... gonna ... d..o-o-o.. it! I didn't ... waanna share," I mumble, before everything fades away with little naked Liza's dancing across my eyelids, hitting me repeatedly with IKEA pans.

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><p><strong>::AN:: Okay that last part was supposed to be Gil's version of seeing stars XD. I hoped you enjoyed my very brief one-shot XD**

**R&R please~**


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